


spirits gather 'round like it's our last day

by madnessiseverything



Series: a wilder narnia [3]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe, Blood and Injury, But also, Curse Breaking, Dark Pevensies, Death, Fae Magic, Gen, POV Second Person, Swordfighting, briefly at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnessiseverything/pseuds/madnessiseverything
Summary: You hope they find peace when they lay slain by you. And when you’ve liberated each corner of the kingdom, and the country breathes anew, you hope the kings and queens of old, in the form that had not become twisted beyond recognition, smile down upon you.the one where a warrior journeys out to break four ancient curses.
Relationships: Edmund Pevensie & Lucy Pevensie & Peter Pevensie & Susan Pevensie
Series: a wilder narnia [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952599
Comments: 18
Kudos: 89





	1. magnificence

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween one and all!  
> the spirit of the day possessed me and out came this, written in one go which is one hell of a feat for the length it is (for me at least). this idea started as me imagining the pevensies as bloodborne-esque video game bosses, but then the fae-themes snuck in by themselves as they are so wont to do. while this doesn't take place in the timeline of "a wilder narnia" it absolutely plays into the themes, so i'm putting it in the series :D hope you enjoy!
> 
> (title from "muddy waters" by LP)

Far up in the Northern Mountains stands the skeleton of a once-grand castle. Within it, a warrior king sits on a forgotten throne. Once magnificent and revered, all that remains of the golden reign of the High King is a deserted ruin and an accursed spirit. Stories of foolish soldiers who never returned serve as a clear warning to any who come this far. 

The mountains are silent when you enter the king’s hall. It’s dark, the mantle of night draping itself over the landscape as you advance. Moonlight shines through the torn walls, and you avert your eyes from the decaying bodies strewn about the cracked floor. Upon a crumbling throne at the far end of the room he sits in rust-coloured armour, once-golden hair stiff with dried blood. The red tabard, torn as to make the lion standard rear headlessly, slashes across his form so very much like gore. The legendary sword Rhindon is unsheathed, clutched in his hand and hanging down over the arm of his seat. 

Next to the throne, there are three piles of rubble moulded into rudimentary seats. You remember the tales told of the northern king, how he slaves away during the day in attempts to build three more thrones. And you remember how every night, the stones fall away from their form once more. You’ve arrived early, it seems. The stones still stand in the mockery of the broken throne the king sits upon. 

At your feet, a pebble skids across the floor. Bright, unnatural blue gleams behind the curtain of bloody hair. The king shifts, only a tilt of his head, and you cling to the handle of your blade. It provides stability to you, an anchor point to brace against the fear.

“We hear,” comes a voice low enough to sound out through the floor and clatter through your ribcage, “and see by your step, a warrior.” You feel it resonate through your entire body. His voice feels most appropriate for the tales told of him. 

The king shifts once more. His slumped form straightens in his throne, and your heart hammers in your chest. He is tall, imposing. You do not doubt that he will fight well. “Have you come to foolishly prove your bravery upon our body?” 

“No.” It takes care to keep your voice steady in these halls. Eyes of legend seem to stab right through to your heart as you draw your sword. “I’ve come to free these mountains of your curse.” 

Perhaps you expect laughter, like that of the blacksmith who refined your armour for this journey. But for a while, the hall is silent. Then the king moves at last. You watch as he pushes to his feet and obscures the moonlight that had granted you the sight of the thrones. 

“There is no freedom in these halls. Not for us, nor for our mountains.” Rhindon, clean of blood unlike its wielder, gleams as the king brings it up in a salute. “None that enter shall leave.” And he charges. 

It is a fierce battle, the hardest you have ever fought. The northern king is every bit of the crimson whirlwind of legend, and it is only by the Grace of the Lion that you suffer no mortal wounds. Your blade glances off his armour and only succeeds in scraping at the long dried blood of those that came before you. Before long, fatigue pulls at your every strike. Desperation makes you swing wide and Rhindon slices through your chainmail as if it were merely fabric. You retreat into the crumbling wall at your side in the hope of drawing breaths of respite. 

That is when you see it. Moonlight catches onto Rhindon, but instead of silver it shines golden, and you understand. Warmth spreads through your chest. Sending thanks to the Lion, you leap out of hiding and attack with renewed might. The king is bigger than you, broader. You endure. 

At long last, the king crumbles under the force of your turn, Rhindon twisted to cut his neck from behind. You can see blood welling up underneath the blade. Everything becomes very still, save for your heaving breaths. It is this stillness that makes you hesitate on the killing blow. 

Then, a chuckle, sending vibrations through you. At your back, you hear the tumbling of stones. “Rhindon, old friend,” the king says. There is a new note in his voice. You think it might be hope. “Of course it is with you that we will find sleep at last.” The king’s grip slackens, and you hold both Rhindon and your sword. The king turns his head, and you wonder if you now look upon the High King of old, as he used to live. There is a smile on his face, and his eyes are the colour of the summer sky. 

“Come now, noble warrior. Bring us our end.” 

You dare not hesitate any longer. When you look upon your foe, headless as the lion on his chest, your shoulders are straight and proud. You bend down to return Rhindon to his hand, now just as bloody as its King. Raising your eyes, you see all thrones reduced to rubble.


	2. gentleness

Between Southern Hills and fields, there stands a bountiful table. At its head sits a once gentle and beloved Queen, frozen in time. Wary villagers avoid the too even path that leads her way and warn any traveller of her siren call. Those foolish enough to sit in one of the chairs surrounding the table find themselves the object of the feast. You know the story well. 

The sun is bright overhead as you come to the end of the path and lay eyes upon a table. Food of all sorts is laid out beautifully, with steaming bowls of a hearty soup, thinly sliced meats, golden loaves of bread. There is a carefully crafted tower of pies next to a large jug of what you presume to be mead. Honeycombs and berries sit in the middle, next to a basket of small pastries. Your mouth waters, and suddenly you feel as though you have never before tasted food in your life. Starvation claws at your insides and your knuckles turn white around the hilt of your sword. You force your eyes up and find the perfectly still form of the queen. 

She is as beautiful as the stories say, with raven hair spilling over her shoulders and skin much paler than any southern woman you have ever seen. Her lips are ruby red, and her eyes silver as the cutlery in front of her. You can’t quite decide what colour her gown is, if it mirrors the small pink flowers you found on your way, or if it is green as the grass around her table. Your vision swims when you look at it for too long. 

You resist the longing to sit on one of the three ornate chairs that stand empty around the feasting table. Instead, you draw your sword. The sound rings through the air. The queen blinks slowly, her previously still form rippling to life. Her gaze meets yours, and she smiles. Your resolve wavers in the face of such beauty. 

“Weary traveller,” she says with a voice that wraps around you with the comfort of a home, “won’t you sit and eat your fill with us?” 

It takes so very long to pry your refusal out of your throat. “I’ve come to free these fields from your curse.” You cannot spot her famed bow anywhere, and it fills you with fear. Should she manage to shoot, you will never draw breath again. 

The queen smiles at you still, but now you see the fangs behind her lips for what they are. “Is that how you see us?” She asks so very kindly. “Are we nought but a scourge upon our own lands?” She stands, and you don’t wish to give her time. You rush her with a hoarse shout. 

You feel as though it becomes as much a dance as a fight. The queen dodges your swings with grace and a whirl of her gown. Were it not for the glint of fangs and your clumsy steps you might have felt the fields around you turn into a grand ballroom. There is no armour upon the queen’s body, but still, you cannot draw blood as she steps around your blade and snaps her teeth in your face. You fling yourself at her sword-first and stumble as she disappears from your sight. You fear she has run off to shoot you until you feel blood dripping down the bridge of your nose. 

A hand stronger than you expected of the queen grabs hold of your shoulder and throws you against the table. You clamp your mouth shut and thank the Lion that you have not landed in a chair as she must have intended. But your hand is empty of your sword, and the queen stands before you with that beautiful smile, fangs stained red. With your heart leaping from both fear and the wish to just sit at the queen’s table and succumb to her spell, your shaking fingers find purchase around something behind your head. You throw it without really seeing what it is.

The queen’s body jerks and the sun catches onto a beautiful golden handle sticking out of her throat. Suddenly, her silver eyes dull into a misty grey and blood spills across her gown. Your eyes can finally see that it is a blinding white. 

“Kind traveller,” speaks the queen as she sinks to her knees with dignity you would not demand of anybody in her state. Blood spills from between blunt teeth, but still she speaks. Her voice lifts your heart with comfort that is no longer false. “Lay us to rest, so that we might embrace our end with grace.” Then she is frozen once more, with a new smile upon her face. It no longer belies sharp fangs, instead showing peace.

You do as she asked, carrying the still form of the Queen to the field of yellow flowers behind her table. When you turn away, the feast has disappeared, and with it, the hunger gnawing at you.


	3. justice

Deep inside the Western Woods, there is a mossy clearing with an executioner’s block in its midst. There stands what once was a just and considerate King, presiding over a court of overgrown stones and ever-dying plants. No hunter within these parts makes it back home, and all know the stories and sounds of the king’s fatal judgements that echo even in the thicket.

Your dagger cuts through the resilient overgrowth, feet snagging again and again as you make your way to the edge of the clearing your eyes spotted what seems like many hours ago. The light has not changed throughout your ordeal, afternoon sun peeking through the ring of trees ahead. Finally, you lay your hand against the bark of the last tree. In front of you, the clearing unfolds. Instead of grass, the floor is covered in deep green moss. It is the only healthy-looking thing in sight. The trees and other vegetation look sickly, as though deprived of both the sun above and the water below. In the middle of the sheet of moss, there is the chopping block, stained a rust colour. You shiver, suddenly finding these woods very cold. 

Walking back and forth behind the block is your quarry, dressed in black and green. Pale skin stands out starkly against his clothes and dark hair. At each side there hangs a sheath, one of the king’s hands resting on the pommel of his right-hand sword. His steps are silent on the moss as he continues to walk the length of the clearing. His face is impassive. Behind him, you see three tree stumps, untouched by the moss and adorned with small wreaths of flowers.

You take a breath and step onto the clearing. As your foot touches the moss, the king stops in his pacing and brown eyes fix onto you. You freeze, feeling as though his gaze is peeling away everything that you are. 

“At last, juror. You find us late for the trial.” There is a command in his tone, one that you cannot quite understand. You wish to draw your sword, feeling unbalanced. Your feet think otherwise, moving before you know where you ought to go. The king’s eyes follow you to a mostly moss-free rock only a few paces away from the block. You wonder at your actions. You had intended to challenge the king to a fight immediately, and yet you find yourself sitting down. 

Finally, you find your tongue. “I’ve come to free these woods of your curse.”

The king’s face is grave as he regards you. You don’t like the way his hand shifts on his sword. “You think yourself worthy of enacting justice upon us in our court?” His question is sharp, and you regain control of your movement just as twin swords fly out of sheaths. You leap from the stone and metal clashes from either side of the chopping block. 

The king is fast, giving you no room to breathe as his blades whirl through the air. Soon you find yourself limping from a precise cut to the back of your knee. A slash across your shoulder impedes your aim. Your speed is of little use, easily matched by your opponent. You jump and duck to avoid swings and know that you cannot win this way. Your lungs are burning, and you take more hits than you have time to deflect. It won’t be long before your legs give out underneath you. 

Barely dodging a stab aimed for your heart, you find your grip on your sword slipping. The king is driving you back with every attack. He has had you on the defensive for most of your duel, and you know you are no match for him. You swing wide, and your sword flies out of your grip. 

Abruptly, the king stops his attack. He seems barely winded by the action, a direct opposite to the way your chest moves up and down with gasping breaths as you stare at him. He nods towards where your blade lies. You understand that he won’t attack you unarmed. A ray of sunlight is breaking through the treetops and hits the block behind the king. You throw yourself forward with a prayer of thanks to the Lion.

The king gives way quicker than you dared to hope. He falls. There is a loud crack as his head hits the edge of the executioner’s block, and you fall to your knees in front of him in exhaustion. 

Blood runs down the side of the block as the king’s voice reaches your ears. “We hear your judgement, juror.” You no longer feel cold. Instead, you feel a deep satisfaction as you look upon the king. There is something like pride in his now warm eyes. “We hear and accept it.” 

Once your heart has found its old rhythm, you take the time to lay the King out on the moss. His hands still hold onto his twin blades and so you cross them over his chest with great care. When you leave, you find your path an easy one.


	4. valiance

When standing at the cliffs of the Eastern Sea, inquisitive eyes will find a cavern amidst the crashing waves. All that live here know not to grow curious, only throwing glances at the sea from this point. Those unwise will quickly find themselves whisked away by a once valiant and joyous Queen with an eager wish to keep new friends within her home forever. 

You breathe in the sea air and scan the bottom of the cliffs. You know where the cavern ought to be, right where green waves crash against the most eastern point of the shores. You cannot find the tell-tale opening right away and force yourself to take another breath. Closing your eyes, you recall the tales of curious children and wanderers being led away from the open air by a bright-eyed woman. You relax your shoulders and blink your eyes open again. A few feet off to your right, you see a crack in the grey stone of the cliffs. In front of it stands the queen with tangled, wet hair plastered to her face. Her spring-green gown sticks to her body, and there is a blinding smile splitting her face. 

“Welcome, friend!” Her voice is clear over the rush of the waves, and she reaches out her hand, beckoning. Before you know, cold fingers have tangled themselves in your sleeve and you are pulled forward through the crack into a fire-lit cavern. As your eyes adjust to the change of light, you stare at three piles arranged at the back of the otherwise sparse interior. A wild mess of small fossils, wilted plants and driftwood, you have no idea what purpose they serve. 

The floor is dry, and the queen’s bare feet leave wet prints as she drops your hand to wander over to the fire. “We shall have a most wonderful time together.” She speaks with such genuine excitement that you move forward to join her without a thought before catching yourself. 

“I’ve come to free these shores from your curse,” you speak and the words slide across your tongue like a knife. Regret slams into your chest as the queen turns to you with wide, betrayed eyes. 

“You would think to harm us, friend?” You become very aware of how the fire glints off of the claws adorning her fingers. She reaches pleading hands out towards you, her claws too close now. You draw your sword, and the queen’s eyes turn into narrowed slits. You barely have time to adjust your feet before she launches at you with a roar unbefitting of her slight frame. 

Your shoulders hit the rock behind you and claws rake across your chest. You yell out in pain. Dropping to the floor to escape the queen’s grip, you swipe at her legs. She jumps back with a snarl, and the fight begins in earnest. You quickly find that your build will help little in a space tailored to the queen. She drives you away from the exit with each swipe. There is livid anger in every line of her face. Your sword can’t find the space to swing out at her. Soon your skin is covered with her claw marks. The ground under your feet feels less steady with every step that you take.

Gradually, you become aware of the fact that the queen is not aiming for mortal damage. The cuts caused by her are shallow, the places she hits away from truly vulnerable areas. There is a slash in your chainmail that lets you know she has more than enough strength to end your life with any of her strikes, and yet you are alive still. She doesn’t want you dead, you think and let yourself stumble more heavily, slamming into the rock with your knees. The queen stops her onslaught with a soft noise. You look up at her and find the firelight haloing her form. Grunting, you twist your body, ask the Lion for forgiveness, and drive your blade through her unguarded chest. 

The queen gasps softly, clawed hands coming up to wrap around your blade. Her eyes fade from amber into a deep blue as she stares back at you. You become aware of tears running down your face.

“Do not weep, dearest friend,” says the queen with blood-stained lips. One hand, free of claws, comes up to wipe away your tears. Behind you, you hear sudden shouts, a celebration from deep within the cavern. “We will return home at last.” 

You lower the Queen to the ground carefully. You cover the hole in her chest with her own hands, clasping them and touching your forehead to them in a goodbye. Someone grabs your shoulder, and you look up into the faces of those thought long dead. You lead the missing home.


	5. reunion

“Welcome home, gentlest sister of mine.” 

“Oh, how glad I am to look upon your magnificence once again, brother. It has been too long.” 

“Indeed, it has. Come, sit, and let us wait for our dear brother and sister.” 

-

“Truly, do I spot the blessed sight of my elders at long last?” 

“Oh, brother just and true. I find you looking well.” 

“Do join us down here, it shan’t be long now.” 

-

“Oh! Oh, my heart, I am home!” 

“Do not weep, sister, you most valiant of us all, lest we follow and drown us in our joy.” 

“You speak as though your eyes still stay dry, brother.” 

“Come, dearest family. We have been released from our chains, come and let us sit and breathe. There is no need to stand as we are.” 

Upon a sunny mountain meadow amidst a ring of trees, with the sound of waves crashing somewhere below, the four bodies of kings and queens long gone curl into each other, reunited at last. 

**Author's Note:**

> this spiralled far past what i had planned for it, but i absolutely adore it :D i hope you liked it as much as i do 
> 
> i have a [narnia tumblr](https://bloodybigwardrobe.tumblr.com/) and am also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/notanycritter) and always up for some chats!


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